The Sword in the Closet
by Casadora77
Summary: Edrian Mortensen isn't really a descendent of the King called to rise and fight again. His two teachers aren't really an Elven lord and a wizard. His crush isn't really Arwen, and she certainly doesn't know he exists. He's just being paranoid... right?
1. Chapter 1

Alix Evanston was presenting in history class today, and I was absolutely fascinated.

It's not fair, really. Nobody should be allowed to look that good while blathering on so eloquently about medieval history, not even her. But she is. And it never fails to rope me in and superglue my focus on her. Not to the points she may be making, or the way she makes them. Just her. Alix Evanston. Those eyes probably have something to do with it, though, like full blue moons straight from an ad for contact lenses. But I'm sure her eyes are naturally so, because they've been that way for as long as I remember imprisonment in school with her And surely no responsible parents would let their eight-year-old child wear contact lenses.

Full blue moons. I like that—I should write it down, to be recycled for English class. The double meanings would score extra points with Mr. Garrison. Full blue moons—large and glowing and… gorgeous. Duh. I mean, Alix Evanston is the hottest girl in our class.

_Whoops_. I shouldn't have called her that. _Hot_ is what guys call girls out of sheer raging testosterone. What a shallow word. _Hot_ means perfect curves—the bigger the better—and flirty, sexy everything drenched with estrogen. The rest of my gender succumbed to hormones around seventh grade. But thankfully, I somehow managed to avoid blinding myself to the fact that there is more to a girl than what she looks like in her bikini. This intelligent, caring beauty named Alix Evanston did not deserve to be degraded by those three little letters, _h-o-t. Goheno anim, meleth,_ I thought. _Forgive me, love._

_Crap_. Too late, I realized the Sindarin had actually come out my mouth. I glanced around to see if either of the guys sitting beside me had heard. Any high schooler, comatose, high, sober or otherwise, could instantly figure out that what I had just murmured to myself was not French, not German and certainly not Spanish. They would know that I was being me. Which is not a good thing. A confession of uttering Sindarin Elvish in a high school classroom is complete suicide. I've been down that room before. Let's refer to Exhibit A, shall we? The day I first saw Mr. Garrison in the hallway, innocent little frosh that I was, the first thing to jump out of my mouth was Gandalf's name.

Yeah. I mistook a barmy old English teacher for _Gandalf_.

Oh, no, please don't apologize for your hysterical laughter as the tears pour down your cheeks. Your reaction is perfectly normal; many of my peers did the exact same thing when they heard of my tragic mishap with my own bumbling mouth. You, dear reader, have naught to apologize for.

Crap. There I go again with the Tolkien-esque dialogue.

I really need to get a grip on myself. The entire freaking school, from last year's alumni to the eighth graders soon to join our ranks in federal prison, knows that J.R.R. Tolkien is my homeboy. I don't need to advertise it.

You can stop laughing at the 'homeboy' thing now.

See? That is what happens when I try to be cool. Looks and style can only do so much for me.

It certainly doesn't help that, coincidentally, I happen to share my last name with Aragorn's movie actor. Yep, that's me. Edrian Mortensen. Spelled the exact same way, too. But I can guarantee that I am of no relation to Viggo. Come to think of it, though, I wouldn't mind having Legolas for my best friend. We would make a great team, he and I together. Legolas would have his bow and long white knives, and I could take down Orcs with a hockey stick. Alix Evanston would be my beloved Arwen… which brings me back to those eyes of hers.

Let's see—what was the other meaning behind 'full blue moons'? Oh, right. Rarity, that's what I was thinking. Nobody sees eyes like Alix Evanston's in the average generation. You see them but once in a blue moon. Hence, full blue moons. _Wow_. Does she put that stuff on her eyelashes like the other girls do? They're just so dark and lush, so Alix Evanston—

"Edrian, would you like to offer your thoughts on Alix's presentation?"

_Crap_. I could not remember a single syllable of what she said in those glorious three minutes. _Crap. Crap. Crap. _How do I bull-crap my way out of this one?

I cleared my throat to drive away any late, lingering voice cracks. Though I (mercifully) was mostly finished with the whole growing thing, my greatest fear for the last four and a half years of my life was to have my voice crack at such a crucial time as this. Mr. Edwards was looking at me. Even more unnerving, Alix Evanston was looking at me. And my entire class was watching the scene about to unfold.

"Uh, it was really well-thought-out," I offered, searching for one thing, just one thing I may have remembered from Alix's presentation. I'd been staring at her most of the time. "I don't know if anyone else really noticed this, and I'm sure it doesn't count for much in History class." I laughed, a small and pathetic attempt under the heat from those sweet eyes of hers. _Um, ah, er. Is that all you have to say, Edrian? Oh, you shut up. I'm commenting on a presentation over here! By a girl! A very pretty, smart, caring girl who has kept me bound to her humor and siren spell since eighth grade! _"But, um, you were very poised while you spoke. I liked that."

Man, that was close. But I think I pulled it off! The danger was not in Mr. Edwards potentially smelling a load of bull crap in my comment, but the whole poise thing. I was talking about Alix Evanston's body in front of our entire history class. I was commenting on what that body had been doing. Which meant I had been staring at her body. In class. I may be bad at math, but I do know one equation: teenaged boy eyes plus teenaged girl body equals extreme tightening of the pants for him. This is NOT something you want to have happen in the middle of school.

To my utter relief, Edwards nodded. "History class or not, this was an oral presentation, and it was graded as such. Very nice, Alix. That will serve you well."

Applause, albeit without enthusiasm, began to trickle through the classroom. Alix thanked Edwards, almost dipping a small curtsy before turning to me. For the briefest instant, her eyes met mine. "Thanks, Edrian," she said. Alix Evanston had a queer way of almost sparkling when she spoke, let alone smiled. And of course, she smiled at me quickly before taking her seat.

I watched the front of her sweatshirt helplessly as she moved. It wasn't the embroidered Aéropostale label that had caught my attention, either. And I swore I could smell fresh green and white perfume as she passed my seat, the sort of Elven perfume I just _knew_ Arwen would have had floating about her.

Ah, Undómiel, the twilight star. Maybe it was the collection of sparkly studs in her ears, glittering so demurely under the cruel fluorescents. But aside from the whole mortal-immortal, dying-of-grief thing, I could just see Alix Evanston playing Arwen to my Aragorn at prom…and beyond.

Oh, well. A guy can dream, can't he?


	2. Chapter 2

**Well, here's Chapter Two of Edrian's story. Enjoy!**

Chapter Two

The old crone's creaky voice scrawled little paper cuts all over my nerves. Biology and cell processes, what else? As she went to scratch something on the board—she never wrote, only carved into the board with chalk like she was butchering and bleeding some massive ancient boar, producing an inevitable and violently chilling racket—I let an ear turn to the faintest hint of news on the wind. The one thing this week that no one could shut up about was the new exchange student from—Wales? Scotland? England?—who was coming. No one seemed to know the name, but word was that she was hot.

Or he? I'd thought I heard 'she,' but even the gender of our new student I could not ascertain. I was hoping for a girl, one who would take my mind off of Alix Evanston.

The teacher continued to trill for some minutes about photosynthesis and cell structure, or something to that affect. I tried to remember her name. It was something with a W. Wilder, Wilson, Williams—

In the back corner of the room, something creaked ominously. Of course, the teacher's exciting lecture had nothing against this new disturbance. _What new devilry is this?_ Boromir had wondered much the same way, deep in the mines of Moria upon the rising of the Balrog. We all turned to see what new devilry the sound of groaning door hinges might herald.

The principal, Dr. MacCalley. Of course. Even normally quiet door hinges, the most silent door hinges that fine carpentry had to offer, inevitably squeaked when that man entered a room, like some pathetic fanfare. Behind him came a mousy little guidance counselor. Her meek shadowing of the principal all too closely mimicked Gríma Wormtongue's gutless cringing behind Saruman atop the pinnacle of Isengard. It was fitting, since Dr. Mac, as he was so affectionately dubbed by students and convicted felons alike, seemed to rule his holdings with powerful black magic and a highly clichéd iron fist.

Great. Principals and guidance counselors. Well, at least it was better than biology. I let myself slouch forward in my chair with great enthusiasm.

Then several girls gasped. I felt my head shoot straight up. Girls gasping meant a new yummy bachelor for them to chase, and a new yummy bachelor for them to chase meant someone else capable of snatching Alix Evanston away from me. I mean, as if my chances of scoring her affection weren't small enough as it was.

Never had I ever before heard a high school classroom so quiet. The attention of the entire room was fixated on one single point.

A third figure followed the counselor to the front of the room. _Now_ I saw what had so captivated the attention of the entire female sex. Tall frame, rather lean but well-muscled and obviously strong. A head of long golden hair, almost too fair and bright to belong on any self-respecting male being, perfectly straight and pulled back in a ponytail. There was a very pleasant scent with the figure as well, leather and fresh open grasslands and something like sandalwood.

Yep, these girls were already itching to get this guy in bed at the next football party.

And just because I was a nerd, albeit a good-looking one, didn't mean that I had no idea how to dress. Or how to recognize nice clothes when I saw them. And trust me, this guy had nice clothes—an olive green shirt, long-sleeved, and perfectly distressed, perfectly tailored jeans. Dark denim. Very edgy, very European. And he had quite a delectable ass, the girls were obviously thinking. Olivia Johansson's cheeks had darkened a shade or two, sure signals of a sudden, natural blush underneath that stuff that females wear on their faces anyway. I could swear a couple of them were squirming in their chairs. There were definitely some new sensations happening under those mini skirts, judging by their giggling.

The teacher immediately relinquished her position at the chalkboard, somewhat shocked and visibly unnerved at the instant loss of our attention. I could have sworn she gulped as Dr. Mac took her place.

"Thank you, Ms. Winston," he declared. The man _declared_ every single thing he ever said

_Winston!_ That was her name. As in Churchill. And _Ms_. Not Miss, not Mrs. Even the school administrators couldn't figure her out.

"I would like you all to welcome Cedric Greene. He's come to us all the way from Ireland—"

"England," the exchange student cut in. Though his voice was quiet and smooth, with a light accent, he spoke tersely, like it was the fifth time that day he'd had to make the same correction. "I've come from England."

Did his eyes flash? If they did, then they were the bluest of blues for me to be able to see that they were blue all the way from the back of the room. Bluer even than—I admitted in defeat— bluer even than Alix Evanston's.

The principal cleared his throat hurriedly. "Yes, yes, England," he corrected himself, "and he'll be filling out the year in this science class."

We sat stunned in our seats. Dr. Mac had _yielded_ to the correction! No one ever corrected him, no matter how wrong he was—no one. And certainly no one ever let his or her eyes flash so violently before him and emerged alive from the encounter.

This kid had some power.

Clearly still flustered from the sudden loss of our attention, old Ms. Winston shuffled through some papers on her desk. "Well, Cedric…" she said.

Cedric. Wasn't that the name of some guy in _Harry Potter_? Didn't he show up somewhere around the fifth or sixth movie? The name was very proper British, very old Celtic. It suited him. _Oh no you don't, Edrian Mortensen. You screwed up once with Mr. Garrison, calling him Gandalf. You can't stop comparing Alix Evanston to Arwen Undómiel. You immediately thought "Elrond" when you walked into Edwards's room for the first time. You've learned your lesson many times over, right? You will NOT let yourself imagine, even for one nanosecond, that this kid is really—_

"You'll need a laboratory partner. Let's have you join Edrian there in the back. Mr. Mortensen?"

…_Legolas_.

I cleared my stuff off of the desk to make room for the beautifully tooled old-time leather satchel he carried over his shoulder. Cedric sat down slowly, and I noticed that his hair was pulled back strangely. He had it coaxed to cover the tops of his ears. Mr. Edwards had longer hair which he pulled back, too, and he did it the same way. Queer.

Is it at all unusual for a teenaged male to be so paranoid? Does my mental state concern you at all, dear reader? Worrisome or not, I was sick of this paranoia. I'd had enough of covering up who I really wanted to be. "_Mae govannen_," I grumbled in Cedric's direction.

He stopped and stared at me, smiling slightly. "_Mae govannen_, Edrian."

I did a double-take. He'd returned my Sindarin greeting. "Dude! You… you understood what I said?"

Cedric nodded, grave except for the spark in his eyes. They were indeed blue, almost aquamarine, jumping out of his finely chiseled countenance. _Who else manages to pull off that blend of beautiful and manly and…_ My English-class mind began spewing a list of certain adjectives, and NOT because I was gay and suddenly attracted to this guy. _Lovely, strong, proud, sexy, intense, virile… potent. Elvish. His face is so freaking Elvish it's ridiculous. Great. Another thing to lure Alix Evanston's affection away from me._

"Yes," he answered. "I understood." He offered me his hand.

I took it and shook it firmly. If this guy knew 'well met' in Sindarin, he might not be so bad. Finally, someone at Linden High School who wasn't my enemy. "Well met, my brother," I grinned.

He grinned back and leaned closer to whisper a question in my ear. "Does the teacher always pronounce 'laboratory' as 'la-_bore_-atory'?"

I nodded sorrowfully. "Unfortunately. She says it like some ancient, demented German scientist who's been plotting to take over the world from his secret underground lair for, like, the last thirty years." I rubbed my imaginary-rubber-gloved hands together with an evil sneer. "At last, I vill push de button and launch my secrrrret veapon—" I replaced my w's with v's and rolled my r's, true to the crazy-evil German Einstein stereotype we were messing around with at the moment— "At last I vill rule de vorrrrld!"

Cedric nearly cracked up. Only his hand slamming over his mouth—I also happened to notice that his fingers were rather long—kept him from bursting into all-out mid-classroom suicide.

Meanwhile, the poor tormented chalk screamed bloody hell and blue murder over the blackboard. Yet elderly Ms. Winston still heard a sliver of Cedric's… well, giggle. A masculine giggle, but a giggle all the same. She whipped her wiry white pouf of a head around to glare at us from behind psychotic purple cat-eye glasses, the kind with an intricately beaded neck strap, as if the attached attempt at being fashionable made the frames themselves a forgivable sin. "Gentlemen, do either of you have a question?"

"No, ma'am," I answered evenly as, beside me, Cedric fought to straighten out his contorting lips.

She harrumphed, unconvinced, and turned sharply back to the board.

We shifted our attention to today's torture method in the textbook. In preparation for tomorrow's "la-_bore_-atory" activity, we were expected to study the illustrated diagram of a stereotypical and very Canadian maple leaf. It was rather well-drawn, really. Every edge was perfectly angled, every lobe perfectly shaped, every delicate vein shadowed with four different shades of peridot green.

It's so fun to be one of the few guys in school who rocks at creative English.

Cedric traced the tip of one elegant finger over the illustration. "The leaf is so tender," he whispered, "so alive. I miss seeing trees."

Poor guy. "We have trees around here," I offered.

"Trees, yes, but they are generic. Bland. Young. Not one of them has ever known what it means to stand as a forest. The trees I knew, they were ancient. Every one was different from the last. They told tales, lived lives much the same as you and I. They had memories," he whispered mournfully. "They were my friends. I miss them."

He longed for trees the same way I yearned for friends, for Alix Evanston. Knowing how he felt, I patted his arm awkwardly. "Hey, man," I said softly. "It's okay."

And Cedric Greene smiled at me.

Finally the period was over. I slung my bag over my shoulder and lit out of that room like the Nine themselves were behind me. Without a word, Cedric grabbed his satchel and followed me. We men had no use for the needless explanations of who was headed where that girls seem to depend on to keep their social lives intact. We men had classes to get to on time.

There were a couple of beefy varsity jocks clumped by their lockers. As I passed, one of them repeated the same ritual customary to my passing, the _Rocky_ bellow. "Yo, Adrian!"

"It's _Edrian_," I muttered as I left him and his snickering friends behind me.

I felt Cedric hovering by my shoulder. "Good friends of yours, I presume," he murmured, falling into step with me.

"The best ever." My response was slathered with just as much sarcasm as his comment.

Cedric laughed. I hadn't pinned him as the type for sarcasm, but he was apparently full of surprises. One surprise was the fact that we were already friends. After all, it is commonly known in all cultures of Linden High School that no one is friends with me, Edrian Mortensen. Another was that he didn't give a damn about what the girls thought of him now. Thirdly, as it turns out, British guys sling their arms around their friends' shoulders much the same way American guys do. And apparently Cedric Greene stuck by his friends, which was obvious as we made our way through the crowded halls side by side.


	3. Chapter 3

**Here's Chapter Three! I guess I'd better start developing the latter part of the plot, eh? LOL :D Enjoy!**

Chapter Three

Alix Evanston was reviewing her notes.

Though the few seats between us were still empty as I slipped into the room, she never raised her head to acknowledge me. I was one of the very few guys at Linden High School who was even capable of appreciating her for who she really was and treating her like a lady, as she so richly deserved. Even more, I'd been overflowing with crush ever since eighth grade. But no, history was still more important. Why? _Why? WHY?_

Oh. We had a test today. Maybe that was it.

Oops.

Mr. Edwards waited patiently for us to settle before he passed out the tests. His stance was that of a typical business-like teacher: we were only wasting our time, not his. It took a couple kids some moments to realize this before they quit gossiping, shut up, and sat down quietly. Then Mandos, Doomsman of the Valar, swung his hammer and let the papers be distributed at the hand of the teacher.

I squinted the smallest bit—not because my eyes were going bad, but in defiance of the challenge ahead—and readied my mind. How would Aragorn have steeled himself to face the Nazgûl? The Urûk-hai? The Mouth of Sauron? How would Arwen have kept herself calm as the wraiths accepted her challenge and started across the river of Imladris to claim Frodo?

As you can probably tell, I vastly prefer Peter Jackson's version of the flight to the ford sequence over Tolkien's original version with Glorfindel. Instead of sticking another random character into one scene of the entire saga, it gives Alix Evanston—er, Arwen—a starring role, not to mention more importance to the actual story.

A few at a time, tests were completed and bubble-filled answer slips laid beside them. When the last desk had been stripped naked of its burden, Edwards casually took a seat on the edge of his desk and surveyed the class. "A king and his sword…" he began, leading the transition into our next topic of medieval history.

"A man's blade was his life. I happen to be most fortunate." Edwards stood and took two long, graceful strides to the closet behind his desk. "This particular artifact has been in my family for years." In the space of a heartbeat, he un-sheathed a massive sword from inside.

A collective gasp burst from the room. No one had ever expected this. Being such a fine academic institute, LHS has a very explicit no-weapons policy, and here Mr. Edwards kept a freaking sword in his closet.

Mr. Edwards tilted the blade to and fro in his hand as he rattled off a list of things that, while we may have had no clue that they meant or what they even were, sounded like very good things to have in a sword. The seemingly delicate edge scintillated alluringly, dangerously, under the fluorescents; the poor thin classroom lighting was just enough to show the intricate markings etched artfully into the blade. And that blade seemed to be about ten feet long.

Oh, my God. For one heart-stopping second, I could have sworn that Edwards had managed to nab a copy of Anduríl from the _Lord of the Rings_ props department.

"There are but few who can wield a sword such as this. Do I have any volunteers?"

Crickets struck up an interlude somewhere in a corner of the silence.

Edwards stopped next to Collin Torino's desk. "Mr. Torino? Go on, give it a try."

Collin straightened from his slouch, pulled up his jeans one measly half-inch over his red plaid boxers as if it would help anything, and placed one pencil-calloused hand over the long hilt.

I gulped. That hilt looked identical to the one in the movies. It had a small fan-shaped detail on the very end and the exact same leather wrapping.

Collin pulled the sword slowly out of its scabbard, muscles flexing even along his back. I could see them through his t-shirt. The tip of the blade whispered free and immediately clattered to the floor, echoing with a ghastly commotion to rival old Ms. Winston's chalkboard carvings in biology class. I sympathized deeply with the poor teacher underneath Edwards's room.

Collin flushed scarlet and slunk down in his seat as Edwards slid the blade back in its sheath.

"Someone else?" he pressed. "Ladies, I assure you my intentions are not sexist. A volunteer? Perhaps one of you could give the gentlemen a run for their fortune."

_Money,_ I thought. _The colloquialism is 'run for one's money.' Although 'run for one's fortune' sounds way cooler._ I wanted so badly to turn around and read the expression on Alix Evanston's face, to see if maybe she was working up the courage to accept Edward's gentle challenge. Given Arwen's sword was far smaller and much lighter weight, a slender Elven blade and one made for a woman at that, but still maybe she could…

"Mr. Charleston."

Mike Charleston was a football _and_ lacrosse player, as his well-conditioned bulk of muscle proclaimed. He seemed to swagger as he stood, preparing to show all the wusses who was lord.

Again the same thing happened. The weight of the sword nearly brought him to his knees, and he jumped back just in time to keep his Nike Airwalks from being decimated by only God knew how many deadly pounds of sharpened hair-edged steel.

No one could even lift the sword. Much to my adoring pride, Alix Evanston did give it a try, but she couldn't even pull it halfway out. Edwards gave her a smile that said he was very impressed, explaining to the class—in the most non-sexist way possible— that the blade was not even crafted for a woman's hands.

I kept a low profile, secretly salivating to lay my hands on a supposed replica of Tolkien's Anduríl, Flame of the West, the Blade Which Was Broken. Aragorn's sword. The Sword of Kings. But most of me could sense all too well the threat of inevitable embarrassment which had plagued even the most popular guys in my class.

"Mr. Mortensen?"

_Crap_.

I looked up very reluctantly and met Edwards's gaze. He had retreated to the area near his desk, but he held the hilt toward me, encouraging me with his eyes.

"Edrian."

Edwards was giving me no choice. I stood slowly and made my way to the front of the room. Thank God I'd picked today to grab a blue Hollister crewneck before school. I may have been about to be humiliated in front of the entire class, not to mention Alix Evanston, but at least I would look good doing so.

As I wrapped my fingers around the hilt, some kid bellowed _Rocky_-style in the back of the room, as per jock tradition. "Yo, Adrian!"

_It's Edrian_, I snarled. _With an E. As in Egg. As in Edmund. As in—_I allowed myself to think for just one moment—_as in Estel._ Suddenly enflamed with energy from his comment, I reminded myself of the supreme length of the sword and pulled its hilt with all my strength.

With a silvery metallic hiss, the blade slid out of its scabbard, as smooth as anybody's dream Mercedes, and balanced itself perfectly in my hand.


	4. Chapter 4

**Soooooo, Edwards has this sword in his closet, and only Edrian can lift it… *Doo-doo-doo-doo, Doo-doo-doo-doo –Elven minstrels strike up the **_**Twilight Zone**_** theme—Doo-doo-doo-doo, Doo-doo-doo-doo***

**BTW, the whole thing with the Sword is not meant to be sexist at all, even though it kind of sounds that way. It's just that women would probably have a really hard time handling a sword that was made for a man. That's all. If it offends you, no one is forcing you to read it ******

**LOL. Let's see what happens next… enjoy!**

Chapter Four

It certainly didn't take long for word to get around. Instead of _Rocky_ bellows from one jock brotherhood after another, I was now being shadowed by something far more sinister.

Silence.

Just silence. Not admiring silence that let me bask in the warmth of an honor or an accomplishment, nor the peaceful silence of serenity. It was heavy silence, glaring silence, I'm-too-shocked-to-follow-common-courtesy-so-I'll-just-stare silence.

Curious how that thick, crushing lack of sound was so packed with noise. It was entirely too obvious what my peers were thinking: _did you __hear__ what Adrian Mortensen did? Yeah, that kid. Adrian, Edrian, whatever! Close enough. That really weird kid who thought the one English teacher was Gandalf. . . No, Dumbledore is the wizard from __Harry Potter__. Not Gandalf. __He's__ the wizard from __Lord of the Rings__. _

_Anyway, Mr. Edwards—the history teacher with the black ponytail and the really stiff eyebrows—he was showing off this antique sword he has, or something like that, and nobody could lift it. Even Mike Charleston dropped it. So Edwards calls this kid Adrian—whatever! Edrian—up to the front. This kid is the hugest geek ever! Yeah, well, Prince Charming could be a real jerk. You never know. Abercrombie and American Eagle pay those guys to model on their shopping bags. Edrian Mortensen is still a geek. __The__ hugest geek __ever__. And he lifts the sword like no one's business!_

Yeah, I liked the sound of the actual silence better.

_Everyone_ knew about what I'd done. It was bad enough walking into history class the next day. At first glance, I could have sworn that every last guy in my class went and got green contacts overnight. Oh, wait—no, never mind, that was the jealousy I was seeing in their eyes. And the girls, well, they had no idea what to think. They just knew that they didn't like me because I'd pissed off their boyfriends so badly.

And then there was Alix Evanston. She sat so demurely in her seat, wearing a Paramore t-shirt, her hair so straight and glossy and a little plastic ring on her thumb to match those blue, blue eyes of hers. She would _still_ rather look at her notes than make eyes at me.

So, even before having to deal with all of _that_, I felt a bit uncomfortable walking into English class late that morning. Telling Mr. Garrison about my metaphor for a certain Elven—er, human—lady's exquisite eyes would have to wait.

The period passed rather uneventfully. As I made my way to leave, though, the teacher stopped me dead.

Garrison stroked his beard. Though trimmed instead of hanging long like the wizard's did, it still had the same balance of silver and white that—gulp—Gandalf's beard had. "Mr. Mortensen," he boomed for my ears only, "I heard you have displayed a feat of great strength." He seemed amused, even hiding a chuckle in his voice the way Gandalf did.

Great. Now I was paranoid about my teachers' mannerisms, too. God, did I need to get myself together.

I felt myself blush red. _Oh, Alix, meleth nîn, _I thought,_ if only I would color this way before your gaze. Maybe then you'd see me and get a clue._ "I don't really know how I did it," I murmured. "Handle the sword, I mean. All the other guys who tried it are in the weight room three, four days a week after school."

"There are many kinds of strength, both in mind and body. Perhaps you merely possess the needed strength, and the other young men do not. Were any ladies brave enough to try?"

"Only one. Alix Evanston." I willed myself not to darken as I spoke her lovely name.

"And did she enjoy any success?"

"She, uh—" I ruffled my hand through my hair, trying to play it cool. "She pulled about six inches of blade from the scabbard, but that's all she could manage."

Garrison's bushy silver brows—again, a feature very reminiscent of Gandalf's—rose in surprise. "Six inches…" He whistled low. "That is very impressive, considering Edwards's sword is a man's blade, not at all delicately crafted for the hands of a young woman."

He continued without giving me any chance to chime in. "There is another reason why I need to speak to you, Edrian. I have a student in one of my other classes who has much the same zeal, the same passion as you do. You two share the same drive to learn. He, however, is…" Garrison pondered his phrasing for a moment, nearly tugging at the ends of his beard, as if he wished it longer. "He is struggling to find his way with words. When he voiced his difficulty to me, I automatically thought of you. I thought that perhaps you might be a good student to… well, to tutor him. Could you stay after school, tomorrow perhaps?"

"Uh… sure." _Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya, tomorrow, you're only a day away._

**I know this chapter is kind of short… it's really just one of those the-not-**_**quite**_**-so-brave-as-Sir-Lancelot 'bridge' sort of parts. The REALLY good chapter is next. Let's see what happens, shall we?**

**Also: "'Six inches…" He whistled low. "That is very impressive…' " I know what it sounds like, but PLEASE do not take this the wrong way ROTFLOL……**

**Thanks to all who read and review. I'll try to keep it coming!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Okay, now we're cooking! Hold on tight… Enjoy!**

Chapter Five

Thin walls are both a heaven-sent blessing and a jagged, skin-shredding Dwarvish curse.

This happens to be the case with our apartment. Anyone who knows a single thing about quality spy missions can attest to the benefit of thin walls for eavesdropping. However, those who don't give a rat about the latest development in the next-door-neighbor's divorce, even though they can hear it as it actually happens, will tell you that living in a paper-walled apartment complex sucks, big time.

Then there's the old saying about how eavesdroppers only hear what they don't want to hear.

_I ain't been droppin' no eaves, Mr. Gandalf, sir!_ the valiant hobbit Sam Gamgee once protested in the sitting room of Bag End as the wizard grabbed him from the bushes. Well, over the years I had learned how to take such great care to avoid eavesdropping. I mean, I didn't really want to overhear the barely-adult newlyweds getting it on just down the hall, or learn how to curse someone out in Portuguese from around the corner.

Funny how I still manage to overhear these disturbing little snippets once in a while.

Mom had another surgery tonight, which meant she wouldn't even be out of her sterile hospital scrubs until nine o'clock at least. So I was on my own that whole night. As I munched a leftover hunk of her blue-hot Cajun chicken and put the finishing touches on my math homework, oblivious voices began to swell and rise in the apartment above.

They had no idea that I lived here, but I would have known those voices anywhere. Edwards and Garrison.

At this point, dear reader, I should probably explain that Garrison, a widower, and Edwards, five years divorced, rent a room together right above Mom and me. As ROOMATES. End of story.

I could hear Edwards's sighing groan as he settled himself in a chair. "I'm telling you, Michael, we cannot keep this up much longer."

Okay, so I wasn't so innocent anymore. In fact, I was pretty much a full-on trespasser. But Edwards's statement snagged my attention like a rough fingernail on cheap polyester gym shorts. First of all, _Michael_. Michael Garrison. I'd already screwed up once with "English Teacher Gandalf." Did his first name _have_ to start with the same letter as _Mithrandir?_ Then I did a double-take. _Keep what up?_

"I can't stand those shots. Staying hidden as we are is _not_ worth its price in Botox, believe me."

"Those Botox injections are out of sheer necessity, Phillip," Garrison chided. "If left unchecked, those eyebrows of yours would certainly raise great terror among your students, not to mention suspicion."

I choked back a massive guffaw. So _that_ was why Edwards's eyebrows were so freaking stiff! This was one of those instances when you find out a random fact about a teacher that totally shatters their image in your eyes. Take your motherly gym teacher; one day when she lets you shoot hoops during the basketball unit, she suddenly reveals to you that she is a Bare Naked Ladies fan. Or the day in study hall last year when I saw the fiery, bleeding black heart my teacher had tattooed on her lower back. Yes, Mr. Edwards as I knew him was gone for good. What kind of self-respecting man gets _Botox_ in his _eyebrows?_ They couldn't be _that_ bad, could they? No way could Edwards possibly have eyebrows like Lord Elrond of Imladris, Rivendell to mere Mortals.

Edwards. Elrond. Eyebrows.

Wait a damn freaking minute! Edwards. Elrond. Eyebrows. Garrison. Gandalf. Michael. Mithrandir. The silver and white in Garrison's beard, Edwards's glossy black ponytail. The familiar mannerisms. Edwards. Elrond. Botox. Scary eyebrows. The sword in the closet, which only I could hold. And his first name was Phillip.

Phillip Edwards. _Man, that must suck to have P.E. as your initials._ Phillip. Edwards. Elrond. Eyebrows.

Phillip. Edwards. Elrond…

…Peredhil?

Our health insurance is fantastic, thanks to Mom's job at the hospital. I wonder if the plan offers decent coverage for psychiatric intervention.

"I spoke to him about the sword. He was absolutely shocked…" Garrison's voice faded out.

_Spoke to whom?_ I wondered. Great. Now they were bringing someone else into this.

"They are excellent friends by now. Surely it will not be long…"

I realized that I was shaking. Like many other young men, I loved this sort of thing in movies, books, heck, even video games. But real live?

Uh-huh. I made a mental note to talk to Mom about seeing a shrink, and soon. _It's all in my head. It's all in my head. It's all in my head. . . _

"Amalric died fourteen years ago. Surely we must—" Edwards, too, faded out for a moment before coming back again briefly—"soon…"

Fourteen years. So this Amalric guy, whoever he was, died around the same time Dad did; I'd been only two at the time. Car accident. I didn't remember much of him. But I knew that my father's name had been Alec… right? _Yeah, we'd better hurry up and get to that shrink_.

"Clarice has been keeping me well informed. He has grown into a fine figure of a man. I have faith in him."

"Patience, Edwards. You must have patience. This cannot be rushed!"

"Yet it cannot be allowed to endure until it is too late!"

Too late. Yes, it was too late for me. I'd had enough. I couldn't even stand to wonder the identity of the woman whom Edwards had mentioned, even though she shared her name with Mom. If only I could fall asleep. Then things would at least be right-side up in the morning.


	6. Chapter 6

**Ladies and Gentlemen, the chapter you've all been waiting for… LOL Enjoy!**

Chapter Six

Thursday was the day of dissection. Mercifully, old Ms. Winston spared us in biology. No, ironically the dissections occurred primarily in English and History.

Well, I did study Cedric a bit. I was starting to become suspicious of him as well. There were the things I'd seen on his first day: the blond hair, deep blue eyes, his bone structure and physical frame. His response to my greeting, _mae govannen._ Even his last name—Greene. As in _leaf_, perhaps?

As we had gotten closer, I noticed his intense loyalty. Cedric's body language constantly screamed, "Protect!" Whenever someone jock-bellowed or made any sort of remark about me in his presence, Cedric would snap his head around, perfect blond hair flying, and fix his eyes on the tragically fated twerp. Powerful blue eyes are unnerving enough by themselves, without the furrowed collision of brows and flying sparks of anger radiating from those pacific depths.

Classic male beauty—check. Hair—check, though worn in a ponytail instead of intricate Elvish braids. Friendship—check. Steadfast loyalty—check. Eyes—check. Warrior fierceness—check. Heck, even the leather tooling on his book bag looked like it could be Elvish. And let's not forget about the way he pulled his hair over the very tips of his ears, just like Edwards did. Like there was something to be concealed.

In English class—Mr. Garrison. I was familiar with the beard, his family nose, the sonic boom with which he spoke. But until now, I had never noticed the true quality of his voice. Garrison seemed to speak with incredible depth of wisdom, even for a patriarch of the English & Language Communications Department with the over thirty-five years of experience he claimed to boast. And though he sported fine combinations of the classic shirt and tie, his collar was done a little oddly in back… perfect for hiding a wizard's long hair, perhaps?

Beard—check. Eyebrows—check. Dark wizard eyes—check. Wizard voice—check. Wisdom and authority—check. Ageless power—check. Sense of humor—check. Then there was the small framed painting he kept on his desk, a majestic silver stallion at liberty on a mountainside of stark black rock. Upon even closer inspection, which was accomplished only through great subtlety and care on my part, I noticed an eagle motif on the frame.

My English teacher even had Shadowfax and Gwaihir the Wind-Lord on his desk.

Then in History class, I watched Edwards's every move. His facial expressions would be _so_ much more believable if I hadn't just found out about the Botox. Even so, Edwards was the sort of teacher a guy like me could look up to. He was even taller than I was—and I'd come off at six-one and three-quarters during our gym class height testing—and quite a snappy dresser. While most of his colleagues spent their days in a shirt and tie or khakis and a polo, Edwards preferred a three-piece suit with a vest. Black and white, with the tie as a shot of color. Very sharp, very Draco Malfoy. And Edwards had the frame for it, too, tight and well-muscled like a hopeful Derby favorite.

Then there was the hair. Glossy, raven-dark, so straight it should have been a wig from _The Fellowshi_p's makeup trailer. And pulled into a neat ponytail, barely covering the tips of his ears.

The tips of his ears. Like Cedric's.

When the bell rang, I followed the other class stragglers out of the door. What stopped me, however, was Edwards's voice. "Edrian. Are you in any hurry today?"

I turned back slowly. "No, sir."

He gestured to one of the front-row seats. Edwards had quite a cool way of moving like some ancient emperor, almost unnervingly collected and regal for a teacher. "Would you do the honor of keeping me company?"

"Certainly, sir."

"Then sit down, please."

I did as he asked. Had Edwards begun to suspect that I was on to him?

He settled himself behind his desk, right across from me, fixing blue eyes on me. Blue eyes—check. "My sword, Edrian. How have you been feeling?"

"Like an outcast." I laughed darkly.

Edwards's brows furrowed as best as they could. "You should be proud, Edrian." His hard gaze softened. "Have others been mocking you?"

"Nothing I'm unused to." Eager for a partial—and daring—subject change, I took a chance and mentioned _her_, she who was above all others. "I was impressed that Alix Evanston gave it a try."

"Yes, she was courageous to do so." Edwards fiddled with a slender stack of papers on his desk. "She comes from a good family, wonderful people. Alix's grandfather was a close friend of mine."

Someone knocked importantly on the door and dared to interrupt us.

"Come in."

Mr. Garrison eased himself into the room. "Edrian," he said, but he did not sound surprised in the least.

Crap. I had agreed to tutor someone today after school, and I'd completely forgotten. I'd blown it. "I'm sorry, sir, I'm really sorry. Mr. Edward wanted to talk to me about something, and I completely forgot that—"

"No apologies, my boy, I understand completely. In fact, it's utterly unimportant." Garrison pulled up a chair beside Edwards's desk.

His _struggling _student sat down on the edge of a nearby desk. Cedric Greene. We quickly shook hands as per tradition, feeling the weighted scrutiny of the two teachers.

Edwards and Garrison exchanged a look. "Edrian," Garrison began, "you do know that we are your neighbors."

I nodded. _Crap_.

Edwards offered a slight, wry smile. "You may have caught some bits of odd conversation last night."

I cold tell he was watching me as my face darkened. "I didn't mean to hear anything. I'm sorry," I whispered. "I tried to forget it all while I slept. But it's kind of hard to forget hearing a teacher talk about getting Botox in his eyebrows."

Beside me, Cedric stifled a snicker.

There was a long moment of silence. Finally Edwards assured me, "Your mind is not as you think, Edrian. In fact, you are quite correct."

I laughed. "Yeah, sure, welcome to Paradox City. My mind is not as I think it is, and yet I'm quite correct. Am I losing my mind or am I losing my mind?"

"You are not losing your mind, my friend." Cedric spoke up quietly.

Edwards laid his massive palms on the desk. "There is a reason why you were able to hold my sword, Edrian."

"Because I'm the only nice guy who tried, and everyone else is a jerk?" I guessed.

Cedric's eyes glinted. "Exactly." He high-fived me, a gesture seemingly out of place for him.

Garrison chuckled, but Edwards acknowledged my point with nothing more than an ill-suppressed twitch of his lips. "Edrian." He turned and retrieved the sword from his closet, offering the hilt to me. "You've seen this sword before."

"Yeah, in your class the other day." Edwards's eyes were deadly serious this time, so I rushed onward. "I-I've seen the sword just like this, but…" I barely managed a whisper as I continued. "That was in the movies."

"Take it, Edrian," Garrison encouraged me.

I settled my palm on the hilt and drew blade.

"You only held it for a moment then, Edrian. This time, keep it in your hand. Give it time. What do you feel?"

The sword in my hand looked almost exactly like Anduríl. I studied it, feeling nothing at first. Then it started to… vibrate somehow. Glow, even. My hand began to tingle all the way up into my arm, like I'd just spent an hour rubbing someone's back through her t-shirt. Hey, as long as that someone was Alix Evanston, I didn't mind.

"The sword knows you," Garrison murmured. "Good."

"It looks exactly like Anduríl," I breathed.

"Peter Jackson's design team did a remarkable job of re-constructing the Sword from Professor Tolkien's work," Edwards explained.

_Oh my God. No. Freaking. Way._ My grip tightened on the hilt. Things were quickly tilting upside down all over again. "Look," I said, completely confused as to whether I should laugh hysterically or cry or start swearing. "Don't try and throw that kind of crap at me while I'm holding a sword, okay?"

"Edrian." Edwards slid the scabbard over the blade once more. "I understand that this is difficult for you to imagine, but you are only throwing things at yourself. We are exactly who you think we are." Slowly, he pulled out the elastic band and shook his hair loose. It was much longer than I thought it was, settling like manly silk over his rippling shoulders.

Garrison and Cedric did the same. That explained Garrison's funky shirt collar—he'd stuffed his wizard hair down the back. And Cedric's flaxen mane… er, _Legolas's _flaxen mane…

No, no, I most certainly was not insane. I had been exactly right the whole damn time.

I stumbled backwards into a chair. "No way," I whispered. "This is freaking impossible. But—but then… who does that make me?"

"Edrian, you are the descendent of one of the greatest men who ever lived." Legolas gently laid his hand on my shoulder. "Aragorn, son of Arathorn."

***Muahahaha* Yep, I love you guys so much that I couldn't resist having a bit of torture—er, fun— and leaving y'all hanging there LOL. More soon! Love, Crirawen**


	7. Chapter 7

**Ladies and Gentlemen, ANOTHER chapter you've all been waiting for! LOL Enjoy!**

Chapter Seven

"_Edrian_ is only your middle name, Mr. Mortensen," Edwards—er, Elrond said. "You do know that."

I shook my head. "I don't have a middle name. It's on the school records."

"Your mother omitted your true first name when you were enrolled," Garrison—er, Gandalf explained, "and took your middle name as your given. It was for your safety, just as Aragorn became Estel while he was sheltered in Rivendell."

"They why isn't she here to tell me herself?" I asked.

"Clarice asked that her involvement in this aspect of your life be limited. Again, for your safety. The more she knew, the more that could be revealed through her, and thus the more risk she herself posed to your very life." Legolas touched my hand in a very comforting, non-gay way. "Your mother did the right thing. She left this for Elrond and Mithrandir to reveal."

"And that time has come," Elrond added. "Edrian, your true name is Adhémar."

_Adhémar…_ "Adhémar." I let it sit on my tongue for a moment. "It's a kingly name."

"And you are the king," Gandalf said softly.

I frowned. "So… wait. _I'm_ Aragorn?"

"You are his descendent. His blood has thinned and hidden itself from our view for many years after the days of his house ended." Already Elrond seemed more like the Elven lord he was and less like the high school teacher he had disguised himself as, pacing slowly and staring out of the window as he explained. "Aragorn's very lineage knew that it was not safe to reveal itself, that it must go into hiding until its time came again.

"When your father was born, we saw Aragorn's blood intensely once more, and it strengthened when Amalric and Clarice were wed. Alec, as you knew your father's name to be, was aware of the blood in his veins. But he thought that there were a few more generations yet to pass until the Heir was born and came forth again. Amalric never suspected that the King was his very son."

"That was when we intervened," Gandalf explained. "Just as it was with Arathorn, we knew that Alec was to be short-lived. His sole purpose in life was to be your father, Edrian, and we knew that there was no time to be lost. You were conceived shortly after your parents wed."

"He died two years later." I whispered solemnly, willing myself not to cry.

"As it was with Arathorn and Gilraen. Tell me, Adhémar Arhirion," Elrond said, calling me by my royal name, "do you remember your third-grade gym teacher?"

"Mr. Stern? Sort of. He coached me when I started playing peewee football. He… he kind of looked like you. Meaning Phillip Edwards, of course."

Elrond smiled. "He is my son."

"Shouldn't his alias start with a P or an E?"

The Elf-lord laughed. "_Stern_ is the German word for _star_. Elrohir's name means _star horse lord_."

"And when you went with your little cousin to see Santa at the mall in ninth grade, she sat on Radagast's lap and asked _him_ for her Polly Pocket set." Gandalf smiled dryly.

I grinned. Lizzie had adored me and would only go see Santa if I went with her, but then she moved away with Aunt Teresa and Uncle Robert. Then I jumped as I remembered something else. "Oh, God," I groaned. "I asked your wizard buddy if he could make Alix Evanston fall in love with me. Oh, God, I'm screwed."

"Wrong holiday, Edrian," Legolas muttered next to me.

Elrond laughed heartily. "You are not _screwed_ just yet, but you may be very close, if you know what I mean."

_Whoa_.

Seeing the look on my face, Elrond apologized halfheartedly. "Perhaps I should point out, Edrian Adhémar, that your back is turned on Miss Evanston during class. You have no way of seeing where she is looking. But as the teacher, I do."

My jaw dropped. "You don't mean Alix Evanston checks me out during class."

Elrond smirked. "She seems to have a bit of difficulty disguising her enthusiasm."

Suddenly my jeans felt a little tight.

Legolas's hand gripped my arm to calm me down as he whispered something soothing in Elvish, and the discomfort subsided.

Gandalf prodded gently. "You have been in love with Alix for quite some time, yes?"

I nodded. "Since eighth grade. On the last day before Christmas break, we watched _Bridge to Terabithia_ for our class party, and she cried so hard I couldn't stand it. How someone could look so beautiful while suffering so badly like that, I—"

Legolas nodded in understanding. "Then it is especially vital that you attend tomorrow night's Homecoming game."

"Why, is she going to be crowned Queen?"

"Alix has been nominated to the Court," Elrond admitted. "But that is not the main reason. Something cold and black stabs my heart whenever the Game is mentioned, something that brings tidings of fear."

"There is a fell voice in the air," Legolas murmured. "Linden is playing the New Hampton Warlocks. Their mascot is the raven." He looked at me meaningfully.

I swallowed the obvious hint. "Let me think for a second," I said. "The New Hampton Warlocks. School colors are red and black, right?"

Legolas nodded.

_Warlocks. Ravens. Black and red. Warlock… a sorcerer. Warlock and ravens—crows. _"Crebain from Dunland?" I tried.

He nodded again. It was his line, after all. "Crebain from Dunland," Legolas confirmed.

"You must take the Sword with you tonight, Edrian," Elrond pushed. "Legolas shall see to it that your skills are polished. You will need them tomorrow night, I fear. You have a good long coat, do you not?"

"Yeah." I'd gotten it for seventy-five bucks at a sidewalk sale outside the Macy's department store three towns over, a nice black wool number, classic mid-length with slight military influences. _So_ not a geek's coat. I laughed. "People wear sweatshirts to Homecoming, not Kenneth Cole knockoffs."

"It will be cold tomorrow night, Edrian," Gandalf warned, "colder than this town has known for a long time. You will need warmth. And the Sword must be concealed."

Oh. So I needed Anduríl tomorrow night. "I see. I'll be there."

"Good." Elrond placed the scabbard in my hands. "Adhémar, Edrian Arhirion, your time is coming quickly."

**Just a Note: Aragorn was sometimes called **_**Dunedan**_** because he was a Dunedain Ranger, so**_** Arhirion**_** is the same way. It's not actually part of Edrian's name. Arhirion= son of a noble lord; can also be translated as 'noble river'.**

_**Adhémar**_** is an old Norman name I found somewhere on the Web; **_**Amalric**_** I think is from the same source. In case anyone is wondering…**

**So I hope y'all enjoyed this installment! More soon! Love to all, Crirawen**


	8. Chapter 8

**It's going to get really good, really, soon! I promise! *Elvish Minstrels Strike Up "The Imperial March" (Darth Vader's Theme): Daa-daa-daa-daa da daa-da da daa…* Here it goes…**

Chapter Eight

Gandalf had been right. Damn, it was cold. Maybe if the Weather Channel ditched their Doppler Radar and hired a wizard instead, the forecast might actually be right for once.

I hugged my coat tighter around me, more out of nerves than anything else. Okay, so I felt a little suspicious with the hood of my sweatshirt up over a hat, layered under my coat with a sword hanging next to jeans and Lord knew how many inches of Under Armour. And knockoff-Armani gloves. And a scarf. Everybody else may have been shivering and swearing and jumping up and down to keep warm, but at least they looked like normal high school students.

Legolas hovered by my left shoulder, giving me an acute flashback to Aragorn waiting atop the Hornburg Gate before the Battle of Helm's Deep. "All is quiet on the other side," he reported.

The Other Side was New Hampton's half of the stadium, and therefore enemy territory. Our real foes—not the Warlocks football team, but whatever remains of Sauron I was fated to battle tonight—were over there somewhere, keeping hidden even from keen Elvish eyes in the innocently pumped-up crowd.

"They will get restless at halftime, Adhémar," he continued. "New Hampton's homecoming is next week. We will be crowning our Queen, but they have nothing to do but wait. They will see a key opportunity, and I doubt they will let it pass."

"Halftime," I murmured. "Of course. Linden's Homecoming Queen is always crowned at halftime. What better moment to attack then when five defenseless, gorgeous girls are out on the field, practically begging for physical mutilation and the domination of evil will?"

Legolas nodded. "I will keep watch, Adhémar." After a moment, he turned to me again and called my by my old name. "Edrian?"

"Hmmm?"

"Could you explain the point of American football? I am not familiar with the pastime."

So I took him through the basics and the finer points, guiding him through each play, although I couldn't quite remember if it was three downs allotted or four. I was more of a hockey man myself. Legolas just nodded in understanding as Linden's second down ended in something greatly heroic out on the field.

The whole Elvish-resistance-to-the-elements thing must have been true, because he was managing just fine with the little half-zipper on his sweater done only up to his neck. He had ditched the British exchange student alias for tonight, not even grabbing a hat or coat just to look normal. But no one noticed the mere loden-green mock neck or the flaxen hair blowing freely around in the frigid wind and the pointed ears it revealed. They were too focused on the game to suspect that an Elf was among them.

After a few more moments, he melted back into the edge of the crowd beside me. Legolas's eyes were dark and deep and distant under the white stadium lights, intent on any foul movements on the other side, but my friend was still there. I exhaled a sigh of relief.

"Hey, Edrian," someone's voice said after another minute.

I turned and nearly peed myself in shock. There beside me, barely tall enough to rub her forehead against my chin, stood Alix Evanston.

Alix Evanston.

She'd said hi to me. Alix Evanston spoke to me. Alix Evanston was standing right next to me.

And God, did she look like a snow angel. Most angels don't go around in turquoise pea coats over navy-blue sweatshirts and white knit hats that magnify, amplify their indescribable blue eyes, but this one did. The dark October night-wind slashed at her face, whipping her hair around, but oh, my God, she was so beautiful. Not even with frosty snowflakes in her eyelashes could she have looked any more beautiful, or draped in the green-and-silver banner befitting Linden High School's…

…Homecoming Queen?

"Hey, what's up?" I offered with a warm—I hoped—grin. "Say, I heard you made it to Homecoming Court. What brings you up here?"

"The view," she murmured. "And yes, I'm on the court, but I don't think I won. In fact, I highly doubt it."

Now _that_ about stopped the entire freaking universe where it stood. Alix Evanston? _Not_ win Homecoming Queen? But—but—I was Aragorn's descendent! I was the son of the King! I _WAS_ the King! She was going to be my Queen Undómiel! And she was one of only two juniors on the Court! How on earth could Alix Evanston _NOT_ win Homecoming Queen?!?!?

"Hey, you've still got a chance," I assured her. "Either you will or you won't. Fifty percent is pretty good odds, right?"

Alix Evanston laughed. It sounded natural. Oh, thank God she laughed. "I wish. Look at the others." She pointed to the cluster of well-dressed girls huddling around a portable space heater by the water—er, ice bench. "Mackenzie Jackson: varsity cheer captain, last year's field hockey MVP, and president of Senior Club. Vivian Spencer: FBLA, Regional Band finalist, student journalist, and fashion intern at the Chloe boutique in the city. Sarah-Marie Natanelli: soccer goddess, AP Literature goddess, high school humanitarian, Mrs.-Last-Year's-Senior-Top-Quarterback-whatever-his-name-is, _and_ both her parents are lawyers. Need I say any more?"

Her lack of confidence was like a knife right through the American Eagle logo on the chest of my sweatshirt. She didn't know herself. She didn't even understand. Alix Evanston was… Alix Evanston. She was so much more than a pretty, preppy golden-girl queen bee role model. She was unique. She was gorgeous even when she cried, which was tons more than most girls could claim. She could pull Anduríl a good six inches out of its scabbard. She was my _Arwen_, for crying out loud!

But I couldn't just tell her all of that.

Elrond's confession from yesterday came back into my head. He said he could literally watch Alix Evanston watch me. Checking me out. Alix Evanston. Watching me. Looking at me. Staring. At. Me.

Girls were pretty crazy about this sort of thing, so it was probably safe to say that she liked me.

"Oh, Alix," I breathed_. I'm going to stay calm. I'm going to be gentle. I'm not going to crush her with overwhelming passion. I'm going to stay calm._ I reached out, touched her hair—God, it was _so soft_—and I hugged her. I let my arms wrap around Alix Evanston and pull her close to me while I whispered in her ear, just like I'd always dreamed of doing. "You are so much more of a queen than they are, believe me."

Then I did one of the hardest things I've ever done. I let Alix Evanston go.

Alix Evanston's rosy cheeks blushed, and she glanced out to the field. "We'll see, won't we?" she murmured. She looked back up at me. "You know, Edrian, there's something I've never told anyone."

"What is it? You can tell me." _Please say you love me. Confess your feelings, melissë, you are safe. Please say you love me—_

"It's my middle name," she said. "Whenever people would talk about their middle names, I just kept quiet like I didn't have one."

I touched her shoulder and thumbed a strand of straight dark hair. "What is your middle name?"

"Ambra. Alix Ambra Evanston."

Ambra. Like amber, but different. Beautiful. Ethereal. Like its owner. Almost… queenly.

Queen. Homecoming queen.

Crap. It was the beginning of halftime. The other queenly hopefuls were assembling on the grass, waiting for the winner to be crowned. This was her chance. But she was going to miss it.

"Go on, Alix." I gave her the thumbs-up.

She smiled. "It's cool, Edrian, really. I don't care. Honestly, don't worry about it."

As if timed by some movie director just to add tension, Legolas swooped to my side. "Adhémar!" he Elf-barked. "Edrian! They are stirring. Can you see them?"

Shoot. The battle for Linden High School, if not the whole Modern World, was about to begin, and here I was still trying to convince Alix Ambra Evenstar—er, Evanston—that she still had a chance at winning Homecoming Queen. I trained my gaze on The Other Side. There was some unusual jostling in the bleachers, but hey, this was a football game. "No. What do they look like? Where are they?"

"Moving down toward the lower levels," he replied tersely. "Clad in black. Long coats. Hoods. You cannot see their faces."

Something in my blood kicked in, and I caught a glimpse, if only for a moment. Yes, black gloves and black hooded coats, long and sweeping so that most of their lower form was concealed, like Halloween costume attempts at _Harry Potter_ Death Eaters. Most certainly they were armed. And there were Nine of them. Nine. _The_ Nine, no doubt.

"Edrian, what is he talking about?" Alix Evanston demanded of me, her voice quivering. "What is Cedric talking about?"

"Nothing. Alix, go!" I hissed. I hissed at Alix Ambra Evanston. It panged wildly in my heart, but I had to.

Legolas was preparing to leap through the crowd, long white knives in hand, but he turned back and started at me with blue eyes like near-panicked saucers.

I grabbed Alix Evanston's hand, tucked it under my arm, and followed him.

**To be continued next time… muahahahahahaha! Yeah, y'all probably hate me for leaving you with another cliff-hanger. Oh well! Love to all, Crirawen**


	9. Chapter 9

**I am so sorry it took so long for an update! Y'all know how life happens? Well, life happened. More specifically, I started 11****th**** grade this week. And… well, I know it's been a while. Please forgive me in exchange for a new chapter? Okay, here it is… PS This the second to last chapter ;( for Edrian's story. I know, I know. But at least you'll enjoy it, right? Big Huge Thanks to all my fans and reviewers! Love, Crirawen**

Chapter Nine

"I hope to God you know what you're doing, Edrian," Alix Ambra Evanston grumbled beside me. She leaped lightly from bleacher to bleacher, adapting easily to my long stride as I raced after Legolas.

I grinned. She was perfect.

"Or… Adhémar? Is that what Cedric called you?" Alix Evanston clutched my arm nervously as we cleared the last bleacher down to the sideline. "What is going on?"

I glanced across the field to The Other Side. The Nine, or whatever representation of The Nine they were supposed to be, had spread into a formation and were moving with slow, cadenced steps, the steps of a dark hunter moving in for the kill.

"Nothing you should be worrying about." I patted her arm, drew myself away, and left her with the other court hopefuls. Apparently oblivious to The Other Side, homecoming festivities were under way, and regardless of what happened to me, I could not let Alix Evanston miss her chance at Queen.

"Edrian!" she shrieked, clearly worried. Alix's blue-moon eyes were further enlarged with fear, and she trembled as she reached for my fingers.

"Alix." I put my hands firmly on her shoulders and squeezed through her coat. "Stay here. It will be all right. I promise." I willed myself to remove my hands and turn away, fingers eagerly reaching to take Anduríl's hilt in my palm.

"Edrian!" She sounded close to tears now.

I turned back. "Alix! Please. Stay. Here." I locked into her gaze, pleading and dying not to say _I love you_. "Please."

She did, looking mournful, and I dared to hope.

But I had to focus. Aragorn refused to let his thoughts of Arwen weaken him against the Enemy, and I would do the same.

Legolas fell into step beside me as we continued. "Edrian," he murmured tersely. "Adhémar. We should not draw blade until we are much closer. They will see us. If they can reach us from a distance, they will not hesitate to fight before we can defend."

"Yes." I held my head high, wondering if anyone had taken notice of our advance across the field. "Legolas, your Elf-eyes. Can you see anything more of them?"

He squinted slightly, barely more than tightening his brow. "Their hands are not those of a Nazgûl, I think, too soft of bone. The hands of a Ringwraith are like scales of iron. And their faces are covered in shadows, but not that of nothingness. The Nazgûl have no form to themselves save for their black cloaks. The shadows I see are of something that is hidden." Legolas met my gaze. "Edrian, I do believe these foes may be Mortal servants of the Dark One."

I breathed a sigh of relief. "Good." I didn't exactly have the means to go about setting Ringwraiths on fire or drowning them in the river of Imladris. If I had to cut down my adversary, even untried in battle, I was ready.

"We are not alone, Adhémar."

The Elf's reassurance made me glance along my right shoulder. Sure enough, Gandalf and Elrond were tracking our advance just beyond the goalpost. Both had settled on long wool coats against the cold, very dapper and yet quite reminiscent of ancient robes—white and gray, respectively—and I knew full well that under those coats, they were armed.

We were close enough now that I could observe perfectly well without Legolas's help. I briefly took in the array of red, black and white in the New Hampton bleachers and the shirtless seniors in the front row with their chests painted over. Those New Hampton boys weren't badly built, but… well, I still had better abs.

I settled on the approaching row of black figures. As Legolas had relayed to me, their faces were too shadowed to be formless, as a Nazgûl would be. Even their hoods were a clue. Morgul cloaks barely covered what would have been the forehead; these black cowls were much more Darth Sideous, extending over the eyes to shade the entire face like the Evil Emperor himself. As the center leader of the Nine met my gaze, I caught sight of a sliver of flesh, right where the chin ought to me.

They were not Ringwraiths. Servants of Sauron they may have been, and Nine of them there were, but they were not Nazgûl, meaning they could be slain.

"Legolas?" I breathed, hardly daring to even move my lips.

He nodded just as subtly. "Yes, Adhémar. Now." The Elven warrior set his jaw and slowly reached for his long knives.

I reached for Anduríl, its hilt warm in my hand, and slowly drew the Sword of Kings before the enemy.

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Those final steps we took were strange. It was like the buildup of tension in a movie before the epic explosion, when every movement is slowed, every footstep and heartbeat echoing like thunder, every movement _whoosh _and _shoomp _as it slices the air. Serious. Thick. Heavy, like lead. And through it all, I could hear the proclamation a part of me had still waited for on pins and needles even as we marched against the Black Warriors

"It is my honor to present to you this year's Linden High School Homecoming Queen, Alix Evanston!"

Alix Ambra was my Queen, just as I had known all along.

"And it looks like there's something quite exciting happening across the field…"

Crap. Any moment now, they would see my sword, and then I'd be dead. But it was either me or the entire school. The entire world, even. I'd be in deep crap up to my ears, but at least their butts had been saved. What a fitting sacrifice on the part of Aragorn's heir. Like the administrators, the students, the world, would even realize what fate I had saved them from, let alone appreciate it or even care. But it was _my_ fate, tonight, to save all their asses from certain doom. And so I would. I passed Anduríl's blade slowly before my face, offering one last challenge before I engaged.

These Black Warrior Whatevers were skilled fighters, I could tell immediately. I was quick to strike, knowing that I needed to attain the offensive position immediately. I could fight all of them together, but I would be lost trying to defend myself against all of them together.

As our blades met, I registered one last piece of evidence of the Whatevers' mortality: their weapons were not black, not Morgul blades, but a normal and healthy silvery-steel color. Anduríl's weight and power sent the first reeling instantly, right into an Elven fighting knife. Legolas and I seemed to develop our teamwork silently; his unique Elvish style, blades swinging and wheeling from all directions, proved to be just enough of a diversion to let me hold my own.

But I was not fighting to kill—not yet. I wanted to give these Black Warriors a chance to fight with courage and regain a bit of honor, regardless of whatever price He had demanded of them.

Everything else was a blur. Not just the motions and the time, but the action itself. I couldn't remember any movement once I made it, but I knew one thing: it was silent in the stands, dead silent both back home across the field and here on The Other Side. Silent. People were watching. Scared, even. And my best friend and I were fighting for their very lives and fortunes. I was locked in once epic battle.

Then things became still. The Eight with whom Legolas had been dealing dropped back, willing to let their leader and their leader alone have the honor of bringing me down. And their leader stood silently before me, watching. Waiting.

I raised Anduríl regally before me. "Go back to your master," I commanded. "Tell him his days are ended. Elessar's heir has come." I lowered the blade. "I will spare you if you do. You have all fought bravely." The Blade Which Was Broken hissed again in warning.

The Longest Moment in the History of the World passed silently. When it was over, the Black Warrior knelt before me and spoke in a whispered, raw, womanly-sounding voice.

I never knew that a representation of a Nazgûl could be female.

"Through your mercy we have regained our honor, my lord," she said. "Your will is our command." Then her shape seemed to melt away. At first I thought it was a crow flying away from her remaining cloak, a _creban_, but I then realized that she had departed as a large, glossy black butterfly. Her companions all did the same, freed in beauty from their disturbed prisons left lying on the field. One by one, each obsidian butterfly rose and disappeared until the only evidence of what had happened was the line of cloaks pooling where they had fought.

"Adhémar." Legolas moved beside me, but his voice was a whisper, and his gaze was focused solely on the disappearing butterflies. "Edrian." Finally, he looked at me. The Elf said nothing more, but his lips were twisting into a proud smile.

_Well done, my king_, his eyes said. In silent agreement, I turned with him, and together we began our victorious trek across the field.

Elrond and Gandalf gave me the same look of glowing approval as we returned to our side of the stands. Predictably, no one really knew what I had just accomplished, but they seemed accepting. Which was good, considering I was their King.

My Queen was waiting for me, too, cradling a bouquet of roses to her chest. "Edrian!" Alix Evanston threw her arms around my neck and hugged me. Her enthusiasm slightly crushed her roses against my chest, releasing their fragrance into the air. "Thank you, Edrian," she breathed. "I don't know how you knew, but thank you."

I was starting to reply—not even fully knowing what that reply would be—when I heard Gandalf call my name. "Adhémar!"

Elrond echoed him immediately, sounding stressed and urgent. "Adhémar!"

As I reluctantly began to let go of Alix Evanston yet again, Legolas somehow grabbed me and mentally hauled me right back to the present. "_Adhémar!_"

There was fear in his voice, genuine fear.

I whipped around. One of the Black Warriors had remained and was flying right toward me, fully armed and ready to kill.

I had done the honorable thing, releasing them all to do my bidding in exchange for an honest fight. Traitor.

"_Back, you demon of the Dark One_!" I screamed. "_Ego, rogûl morhîro!_"

There would be no mercy this time. I brought Anduríl back into my hands, threw myself at the creature, and cut its damn head off.

The wind picked up as I did, swirling into a vortex centered on the dying Black Warrior. This one got no black butterfly for its betrayal. With a tortuous howling scream, its form stiffened, shuddered, and departed in a flash of blinding light to whatever hell awaited it, leaving its cloak motionless in the grass.

_**This is my first real fight scene, so if you think I need practice writing this kind of material, I understand. As always, reviews are more than welcome. Unfortunately, I shall be out of town for the weekend, plus I have to endure another school week. Therefore, it may be a while before I am able to complete Edrian's story. There are still some things we need to wrap up…**_

_**For those of you who are wondering:**_

_**Ego- be gone**_

_**rogûl- rog (demon, as in Balrog) + gûl (sorcery, as in Nazgûl)**_

_**morhîro- mor (black, as in Mordor) + hîr (lord) + o (suffix, 'of)**_

_**Thank God for online Elvish dictionaries LOL.**_

_**Again, thanks for the love, support, loyalty and reading! ~Crirawen**_


	10. Chapter 10

**Surprise! I managed to get two chapters out of the finale. Count 'em—TWO. Yep. Hope to get the Epilogue posted sometime next week. I'll try, I promise! **

**By the way, just a brief warning: these two final chapters were prepared under heavy influence of Evanescence's "Good Enough" set on repeat. Just so you know.**

**Well, here we go… hold on tight…**

Chapter 10

If I hadn't set my alarm clock, I doubt I would have woken up. Battling representations of the Nine on a Friday night drains a lot of energy, after all. I mean, who the heck sets an _alarm_ clock on a _Saturday_?

Unless, of course, it's Homecoming Saturday.

Oh, God. Homecoming Saturday, the biggest day of the High School Year after the first and last days, even bigger than the Friday Game that struck the final note of the autumn football season. The day for which underclassmen girls buy dresses months ahead of time, the defining night for this year's crushes and couples across the school—

Girls, crushes and couples. Great.

I was _so_ skipping the dance this year.

Just going to the dance is difficult enough, emotionally. Who doesn't love getting dressed up in an awesome shirt and tie to stand around through a pounding force field of rap music and watch the girl of his dreams go sailing by, looking absolutely gorgeous and tangled up in some football player's arms?

It's more fun to just meet up with friends. Sure, that's what they all say. But when the couples start appearing during the slow songs, even "just friends" folk like me start hurting really badly.

It hurt _now_, and I even had a date this year—the proverbial elephant. No one had any idea what had happened on the field last night, and no one was going to bother asking. But no one was going to forget, or let _me_ forget, and _**no one**_ was going to act like it didn't happen.

So I drifted off to sleep.

The next thing I knew, about three o'clock in the afternoon, Legolas had somehow gained entrance to the apartment and perched himself on the edge of my bed. Not only was he gently shaking me awake—or so it merely felt to a strong Elven warrior—but the ends of his hair were rubbing themselves all over my face like a petulant cat, and I practically woke up sneezing.

"Dude…" I slowly tossed the covers aside. "I'm trying to sleep here."

"No, you're not, Edrian." The Elf seemed to dance where he sat as he offered me a wide grin. "Today is Homecoming."

"Exactly."

"And you are still in bed."

"Yes."

His face softened in confusion. "You are not going?"

"Nope." I determinedly cast myself back into the little nest I had created, fluffing the blanket pointedly around myself.

Legolas seemed almost mournful. "Why?"

I explained the pointlessness of it all, to which he reacted with obvious shock, even bordering on disgust.

"Edrian!" he exclaimed, "this is a celebration! Not just of that ridiculous _football_ game, but of Mortal youth and life! You _must_ go."

"Yeah," I muttered in sardonic agreement with his first statement, "it's a celebration of gorgeous girls and their unwavering devotion to blockheaded jocks."

The black humor fell flat with the Elf, and he didn't bother to hide it. "Edrian," he began slowly, quietly, "what you accomplished last night was incredible."

"It didn't feel like as much of a battle as it should have. Not much epic action."

This time, he laughed. "Because you were focused. Much of the _action_, as you call it, is completely lost to the mind and memory during such a fight. But believe me, Edrian," Legolas said soberly, his blue eyes lightening, "it _was_ incredible. I watched you, my friend. I watched you take each foe and cast it away just for a moment so you could manage another, and then return to the first—all merely to defend yourself, not even ready to kill. That was the work of many warriors, not just one."

I smiled a little. "We did make an awesome team."

He returned the flicker. "Adhémar, you fought like a king. You showed courage and determination and _honor_. You spared their lives and released them, save the one betrayer—" his voice grew bitter for a moment—"something no one thought was possible. Elrond, Mithrandir, and even I all thought that they were merely tortured servants unleashed to destroy, not beings of equal honor as you revealed them to be." Legolas leaned in close, uncovering a bit of the eternal sadness he carried as he named my forefather. "Tell me, Adhémar, would Aragorn have missed his own coronation?"

"No… but this is Homecoming, not—"

The Elf's quick fingers settled on my lips in a _purely straight_ gesture—merely to silence me. "Edrian, go to the dance. Take a chance and claim Alix." He paused. "You are my king, Adhémar, and tonight is for you and your queen."

My queen. Alix, she who had even stood beside me last night as I prepared to meet a deadly and mysterious enemy. My Queen Evenstar, Undómiel, the brightest star of the night.

I took a deep breath and straightened my shoulders in a way I felt sure Aragorn would have done. "So it is," I said. "To Homecoming."

There is very little romance to a school dance, especially Homecoming.

The atmosphere: pounding rap'n'crap, a packed and high-energy dance floor full of people who can't tell—or who refuse to acknowledge—the difference between a school cafeteria and a twenty-one-and-over dance club. Oh, and jocks galore.

But the grand entrance is always fun, when the girls gush over dresses and long-lost friends as they exit from their boyfriends' cars and linger in the school foyer. Those of us not so fortunate prefer to stand back and observe who is with whom, who has been taken, who is still available, and whose territory has been clearly marked.

And, of course, we remark amongst ourselves as to who needs a serious crash course in shirts and ties. This may surprise you, dear reader, but sometimes we of the male sex _do_ need to conduct one last review of our physical appearance before making such an important arrival, as well. A once-over, I think girls call it. But who needs that when one's best buddy is an Elf?

Elves are great dressers, by the way.

Imagine this: a legendary Elven warrior hidden to the eyes of adolescent society by the ruse of foreign British fabulousness. Yep, that's what I had to look good next to.

We hovered outside the school doors, checking for rumpled collars, wrinkles, and the possibility of my tie know having gone askew. I had settled on solid sapphire blue against a black dress shirt. After all, Legolas had been right—I _was_ the King, and this _was_ a celebration. We both had to look the part.

Legolas placed a hand on my shoulder, visibly satisfied. "You look magnificent, my friend," he said with a soft smile.

"As do you." I raked my gaze up and down one last time. The Elf had returned to his role of Cedric Greene, the sharp-and-stylin' British exchange student, in costume of black jeans and a white vest over a pale blue shirt that looked to be brocade. "I feel very human next to you."

He laughed. "Maybe so. But nevertheless, _mellon_, you are the King of Men. And as a mighty King of Men you certainly appear. Aragorn would be very proud."

His slight smile, and the determination it carried, chased away the audible sorrow hanging below the surface of his voice; tonight was not a night to linger over grief. I returned it, more of a firm nod, and prepared to open the door.

Then I noticed that Legolas—Cedric—had rolled up his sleeves, albeit rather messily, to reveal smooth marble forearms, and that his collar stood up against his neck in a way a dress shirt never would.

Hmmm… lumpy rolled-up sleeves and queer collar. I grinned, realizing the garment's true identity and just why it was so familiar in my mind. "Peter Jackson and his design crew nailed the Elvish tunic, didn't they?"

"That he did," the Elf quipped. He set his jaw in preparation and turned to face me. "Are you ready?"

I was.

.................................................................................................

We slowly surveyed the festivities from the outskirts of the crowd. Time continued on, one rap song after another with the occasional techno-remix anthem and overplayed pop-rock radio hit. Surprisingly, no catfights broke out over dates or dresses, and _no one_ got a grinding-related expulsion, probably because no one was dumb enough to get caught.

But I saw no sign of Alix Evanston.

Legolas—Cedric—seemed to hear my worry. "Perhaps we are simply in the wrong place at the wrong time," he managed to whisper in my ear over the blasting Flo Rida. "You will find her, Edrian, she is the Queen. She must be here."

His timing was ridiculous, because just then the DJ boomed, "All right, ladies and gentlemen, this is the moment you've all been waiting for. It's time to crown this year's Linden High School Homecoming King!"

The cheering was absolutely thunderous as the rest of his announcement was blasted out of the water. But we all knew what came with the territory: the King's Dance with the Queen, and Royals' Choice.

Legolas followed me around the side of the crowd as I strained to find a clear shot between the various six-foot-something heads that hovered above everyone else. Alix was Queen. She _HAD_ to be right there.

And she was.

Oh my God, she was beautiful, standing right underneath the lights of the DJ's booth. Underneath her emerald-and-silver royal sash, her dress was mint green and probably vintage, cut off the shoulder. She'd curled her hair, too, big luscious curls half-piled up at the back of her head with something sparkly woven in.

Talk about Elvish.

Two perky, tanned blondes and a brunette in nearly identical dresses—flouncy, pink and purple and blue, very Student Council—crowded around the mic next to Alix. "Um, hey, everybody!" the blonde in purple smiled. "Hope you're all having fun. As you know, this is when we announce this year's Homecoming King—"

"_GO, BROOMER_!" some beefy wrestler bellowed, trying to climb over his buddies' shoulders in the middle of the dance floor.

The Three Preps giggled coyly amongst themselves. "This year's Homecoming King is…" the brunette in pink began, obviously reading off a slip of paper in her hand.

"Nathan Moscovetz!" her ladies-in-waiting chorused behind her.

Nathan Moscovetz. It so figured. The guy was a total cross-country machine, the epitome of Prince Charming to unwitting underclasswomen, and he was in all AP classes. He could probably model for Abercrombie or American Eagle in his spare time, if not Calvin Klein or Dolce & Gabbana. And worst of all, he knew it. But the gray-and-burgundy tie wasn't bad with khakis and a white shirt.

He swaggered through the crowd, savoring his victory—and probably the dance privilege that came with it. I wasn't the only one who felt the way I did toward Alix Evanston. But for Nathan Moscovetz, this was his one chance, because Alix Evanston was entirely too smart to fall for guys like him. Not to mention that jocks rarely dated outside of the prep-princess circle. It was bad for Image.

Alix Evanston felt the exact opposite—it was marked clearly on her face. But although she did not _like_ Nathan Moscovetz, she was going to enjoy this dance even if it killed her, and she was going to rub it in the other hopefuls' faces with her nose proverbially in the air.

Palms curling, I bit my lip. First I had to endure watching Alix Evanston dance with someone else, let alone Nathan Moscovetz, and then I would have to watch her pick her next partner.

_This_ was why I had wanted so badly to stay in bed this afternoon.

Legolas, on the other hand, sure had a knack for sensing my thoughts and assuaging whatever negative emotion they carried at the moment. "Edrian," he murmured, "you have no reason to fear, Adhémar. Have faith in your Queen. Do you remember nothing of the game last night?"

Of course. Alix Evanston had said hi to me, stood next to me, told me her middle name (which she claimed she had never told anyone), let me hug her—heck, even followed me down the bleachers and tried to insist on staying beside me as we began our march to The Other Side. I sighed, decided to have faith as Legolas suggested, and focused on that single particular memory.

It rocks to have an Elf as one's best friend.

The song—the DJ had somehow managed to find a fairly recent slow song he could tie into Homecoming, memories, and what little romance there was to be found in the strictly ceremonial dance between a newly-crowned King and Queen who didn't even run in the same social crowds—began to wind down at last, and I ever-so-slightly relaxed the muscles in my jaw. But my teeth remained clenched.

The DJ, of course, was all too jovial for a guy stuck in a high school cafeteria at nine o'clock on a Saturday night. When the last strains of Nickelback's "Far Away"—maybe because our football team had been _"far away for far too long"_—had faded away, he boomed, "Ladies and gentlemen, please clear the floor for your King and Queen; this is Royals' Choice."

Nathan Moscovetz immediately broke away from Alix—God, did it hurt to watch him do that—and wandered through the crowd. He returned to the floor with a tiny corn-fed-bikini-body blonde in a silver halter dress, obviously his girlfriend.

I watched Alix Evanston as she scanned the crowd. She eventually started in my general direction; I gulped and whispered a quick split-second prayer.

A few jocks in front of me banded together before their Queen. Again, the opportunity to dance with Alix Evanston sang—er, rapped—its siren song to her other distanced admirers of the moment. So unrequited adoration really _was_ rampant among others besides the geeks.

My breath caught sharply as she disappeared from my view. I could not even see her face, her eyes, any feather-slight gesture capable of relaying her thoughts, her decision to reject—I hoped—her current and ill-positioned suitors. It was obvious that they were trying to bring her to them and then win her over until the next girl came along, instead of having the guts to actually ask her out and treat her right.

Then the waters parted, almost literally, and Alix Evanston slipped past the barrier, slowly and shyly coming even closer to where I stood.

Finally she stopped in front of me, obviously trying not to stare at the linoleum. Dance-floor atmosphere aside, I could barely hear her meek attempt at my name. "Edrian…" She looked up at me hopefully with her big blue eyes, softly lined with a hint of dark makeup, and I understood. After all these years, she was asking of me the greatest pleasure, the greatest honor, I could hope for my earthly life. I understood.

These boys—the jerks in the hallways, the cocky rejects watching us now—had no idea how to act before crowned royalty, even Homecoming royalty. I was going to show them just how to show the due respect to such a lady.

I knelt slowly before her, not caring who saw me do this, or what might be said. This was our moment, the revamped and uncheesified fairy-tale moment I had wanted to give her for so long. Urging myself to stay calm, I took her hand in mine—her tiny, slender, warm hand—and gently brushed it with my lips. I kissed Alix Evanston's hand.

"I would be honored," I said.

**You know, I actually kind of miss having "Far Away" as the prime slow song of the night like we did back in middle school *sigh***

**Well, I've got to go to bed now LOL Until next time…**


	11. Chapter 11: Epilogue

**Okay, this is it, I swear. The thrilling conclusion! But first, I'd like to include a word from our sponsor, New Line Cinema.**

**That was a joke.**

**Also, just a warning: as with the previous chapter, this Epilogue which is soon to follow was prepared for your enjoyment under the influence of Evanescence's "Good Enough." (I think it would make a lovely theme for Edrian Adhémar Arhirion and his Queen Ambra Undómiel.)**

**Anyway, here it is *sob*! Without further ado…**

Epilogue

When we joined Mr. and Mrs. Nathan Moscavetz on the dance floor, we did so hand in hand. Alix and I were holding hands.

"Lips of an Angel" came as a bit of a surprising choice of song, but also a relief. Maybe because the Queen was dancing with a chosen partner instead of her King, and vice versa. But the bottom line was, I was about to dance. In front of my peers. With Alix Evanston. And boy, was I having fun.

She glanced up at me shyly with those incredible blue eyes and slipped her hand in mine, draping her other arm against my shoulder.

I noticed that as her dress curved below her collarbone, its edge was cut in a design that very closely resembled little leaves, a delicate trail of Elvish ivy. Carefully, I brought my other hand around to rest above the small of her back. The material felt almost bead-like under my fingertips, strengthening my theory of a vintage dress. Even the luscious curls draped over her bare shoulders made me want to cry. Regardless of her resemblance to Arwen, Alix Evanston was beautiful. And tonight, for a moment, she was in my arms.

For a moment.

I gently found her eyes, temporarily level with my lips because she'd kept her shoes on. "Alix, why am I here?" I begged softly. "Why me? Why now?"

She gazed back at me, drinking up the plea she saw on my face, and gasped a small sigh as she realized. "Edrian…" she whispered. "I've kept you waiting for far too long, haven't I? Oh, Edrian, I'm so sorry."

I wanted to reply so many things at one—_heck yes, I've been waiting_—_no, meleth, don't be sorry_—_it's about time you saw me waiting here_—_my Queen, I forgive you_—_Alix, I love you_—but all I could manage was her name, hesitant and timid. Frankly, I had to wonder if Aragorn had ever seemed so weak, sounded so weak, felt so weak in Arwen's presence as she declared her love and devotion to him.

Alix Evanston was still staring up at me… adoringly, I realized after a moment. Caringly. Affectionately. The same way I had watched her silently for years. And now, she was looking at me the exact same way.

No, wait. Oh, my God—

She was kissing me.

Alix Ambra Evanston was kissing me.

Kissing. ME. On the lips.

Boy, was she ever.

I could feel her trembling, too, as she shyly laid her fingers on my neck. So _this_ was what it felt like. Or maybe it just depended on the person. Either way, I had never felt hot and cold meld themselves together this way all over my body, especially in the backs of my eye sockets. And I certainly had never felt this watery in the knees.

Wow.

And then she was gone.

Or at least it felt that way, so abrupt was the parting and so the air after feeling her warmth that close to me, in my arms and on my lips. But she wasn't gone.

She grinned shyly from below my chin, and I gradually became aware of the fierce blush we shared and the general ovation coming from all around us on the dace floor.

"That _is_ how it's done, isn't it?" she questioned hesitantly, lifting herself closer to my ear over a round of deafening whoops from the nearest herd of varsity jocks.

_I—I think so_, I wanted to stammer. Oh, God, she was so adorable with that scarlet blush. I could see it even in the dark of the cafeteria dance floor.

But I stopped.

Maybe it was the explosion I heard and felt where my heartbeat used to be. Or maybe it was the glimpse I caught of Elrond grinning at me from the edge of the dance floor, otherwise still and solemn beside a softly smiling Legolas and an eye-twinkling Gandalf.

This was my chance. I was certain now of something I could not have been certain of any other way: Alix Evanston was in love with me. Elrond had been right; Legolas had been right. And here I was with Hinder building their music into "Angel"'s final chorus—an utter confession of emotion—and the Arwen of my life still in my arms.

This was my chance to sweep her off her feet and finally make her mine.

I slowly raised my hand, the one which held hers in its finger, touched her chin with my thumb, and held it gently. "No," I murmured, laughing softly. "I think… I think it's supposed to go more like this." Taking a breath of anticipation, I ignored the blood pounding in my ears and bent my head closer to hers.

And this time, _I_ kissed _her_.

Let's just say that all of that—ahem—_practice_ in the shower on the palm of my hand? It paid off, big time.

She was smiling again when we finished, and I smiled back. So were—ahem—Edwards and Cedric and Garrison, telling me _well done_. Which was the same message I was getting from Alix.

"Edrian…" she whispered again, contentedly this time.

"Shhhhh." I put a finger over her lips. No more words were needed tonight. The battles were won, the King—and Queen—risen and made known to the world. Tonight was all about peace, joy, love… and high school football.

We'd just have to see what tomorrow would bring.

_I Veth_

_The End_

**FYI, "Far Away" and "Lips of an Angel" were **_**the**_** slow-dance songs back when I was in middle school some four years ago. Frankly, I kind of miss those days. The rap'n'crap at a high school dance gets a bit old, especially when the DJ has it just loud enough to slightly distort the sound (ahem). But I guess it's appropriate that I just went to my homecoming a few weeks ago. ANYway.**

**Before I sign off, I would just like to send a HUGE heartfelt thank-you to all my reviewers, favorite-ers, commentators, critics, and especially my fans. It's not love that makes the world go round, nor is it money—it's you guys. But I guess that kind of falls in with love, so maybe one could say that love makes the world go round. In the form of you guys. At least in the fan fiction universe.**

**So anyway, here it is: thank you, vielen Dank, danke schön, dĕkuji, le hannon, etc. That was English, German, German, and Czech, in case you're wondering ******** And we should all know the last one, though it may not be grammatically correct ;)**

**To quote Maroon 5: And so this is goodbye.**

**To quote Evanescence: You still have all of me.**

**Thank you all again from the bottom of my heart. It has truly been a pleasure to review your thoughts, comments, and reviews, and to know that I have your support. Keep your eyes peeled for new stuff, and don't hesitate to check out my other fanfics!**

**To quote Enya: May it be an evening star shines down upon you.**

**Le hannon o gûr nîn, I thank you from my heart. Namárië, Crirawen**


End file.
